Hamlet even on Halloween!

To quote Shakespeare, ‘Like Niobe, all tears’ I gazed out my window this last morning of October. Flurrying more than drifting, a host of (oh, here's a good one!) Santa's dandruff? wafted to the muddy pavement. Inwardly cringing at the so apt reminder of encroaching winter, I headed off to the café to face Tony’s good natured gibing.

Despite myself, I couldn’t help but notice the air of serenity that the frosty flakes : ) lent to my otherwise edgy Central Park vista. Note: freshly fallen snow obscures beer bottles, yellowed plastic and broken glass – at least until it melts! And the rebellious glimmer of excitement that sprang up unbidden was hard to suppress. (Don’t tell Tony!) I tell myself that the first snowfall only excites me because it means one less snowfall until the May long weekend . . .


Radical digression from the current topic supervenes:

I have this wonderful friend who is old enough to be my mother. Now that I think of it, a whole darn lot of my friends here in Winnipeg have taken on quasi parental roles, and not least of all because of their age! This one woman in particular has played a large role in my life recently; I will grant her anonymity because I can’t foresee which of my acquaintances may stumble across this blog, and name her Ruth.

Ruth spent many years living homeless on the streets of Winnipeg before the Lord reached out and touched her heart. Today she runs a ministry in the North End; seeking to give back to God what he has given to her. This evening I accompanied her to Wal-Mart, after which she drove me home by way of her old haunts, through the slums of the North End, pointing out boarded-up crack houses, child prostitutes, and other ministries like her own – flickering but persistent lights in a gloomy, oppressive haven for the enemy.

It was the women I saw that grabbed and yanked, not pulled, at my heartstrings. Ruth says the girls can be as young as ten. At ten I was writing poetry and building dams in our creek with my brothers. I tend to filter everything I see through my own experiences, to hold up hard realities alongside my sheltered life. I’m sure this is natural, and not solely my experience, although I wonder at its efficacy. Does comparing another’s life to mine distance that individual from me? Or does the stark contrast bring the painful truths that much closer to home?

Of one thing I’m certain. It will take much to erase the haunted eyes of the black-haired teen selling herself on Halloween from my memory.

. . . winter . . .

Winter is beginning to howl through the streets here in the wind scoured metropolis of Winnipeg, Manitoba. I walked to work today under a slate gray sky and skeletal branches reaching up toward the heavy, snow-laden (God forbid!) clouds. The remains of summer's happy foliage lie sodden and decomposing in the gutters - scattered with rejected cigarette butts and candy bar wrappers. The grass is crisping, losing its green health and taking on the sickly hue of light-starved vegetation, the hapless victim of nighttime's frost.

I work at a unique café in Winnipeg's West End. Founded by the Christian activist Harry Lehotsky, the Ellice Café is a non-profit community development initiative run by New Life Ministries. Most of us staff live downtown Winnipeg or in the West End, and though we come from staggeringly diverse backgrounds, we have a lot in common.

Winter though, is an issue that divides us into two camps. I don't hate winter; really, I don't. I just don't see the point of it. Why? Why, when one could be bathing in the sun, hiking through the Whiteshell, slapping mosquitoes, slathering on sunscreen while canoeing some winding river, rollerblading or biking down a leafy, oak-canopied street . . . why snow?

Scarcely a day passes without Tony, burger boy extraordinaire (I don't get that nickname - why burger boy?) and me debating the pros and cons of the snow-blanketed season that is winter. He taunts me with foreboding forecasts, and eagerly glances out the tall windows at the low hanging, heavy clouds. Winter is marching relentlessly down from the arctic wastes - and I wait for it despondently, sinking further under my feather tick and sipping my piping hot chicken soup and crackers - Wheat Thins of course!

June, I'm waiting!

Fluting

I pulled my flute out today - the second time in months. It's funny how an instrument sticks with one; dexterity and nimbleness fades away - but the head knowledge is all there. If only I could transmit that 'know how' to my fingers, but skill is something that only practice will increase. Interesting, isn't it: if the smartest individual existing doesn't exercise his mind, then he may as well not have one. Skills, abilities, talents - they are only as profitable is the time and energy we put into them. Indeed, they don't revert to dormancy with under use, but degenerate. Like my writing . . .

merely scratching

This is my first blog of what I hope will be a long series of postings. As I am utterly unfamiliar with the confusing world of bloggging, I will be scratching away at these posts for quite awhile until I get the concept cleared up in my head.

I like the anonymity of blogging; anyone can read what I write, but they can't criticize my day-to- day existence. I suppose that's not the best reason for blogging, but at present it's mine - freedom of expression on my part, and feedback from readers, but not condemnation, at least none that can reach through my browser window and shake my world.

So long for now.